Caspian's POV
I crush the champagne glass in my hand.
Not on purpose. But the stem snaps, and suddenly there's blood mixing with expensive champagne, dripping onto my thousand-dollar suit.
"Caspian!" Liam grabs my wrist, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "What the hell?"
I stare at the broken glass like I've never seen one before. Like my hand just betrayed me. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding all over the Plaza Hotel."
"I said I'm fine." I shake him off and wrap the handkerchief around my palm. The cut isn't deep. It'll stop bleeding in a minute. Unlike this wedding, which feels like it'll bleed me dry forever.
My father just married Victoria Monroe. Again. Another woman. Another chance for someone to destroy him.
I scan the reception hall, looking for Dad. He's on the dance floor with his new wife, spinning her around like they're the only two people in the world. He's smiling. Actually smiling. I haven't seen him smile like that since Mom died eight years ago.
Which is exactly why I'm terrified.
"Your father looks happy," Liam says, reading my mind like he always does. "That's a good thing."
"It's a dangerous thing." I toss the broken glass onto a passing waiter's tray. "He barely knows her. Six months isn't enough time to know if someone's real or just playing a role."
"Six months is longer than most of your relationships."
I shoot him a look that would make lesser men back away. Liam just grins. He's been my best friend since we were kids. He's immune to my intimidation tactics.
"This isn't about me," I say coldly. "This is about my father making another mistake."
"Or maybe it's about your father finding happiness after years of being alone." Liam sips his champagne. "Not everyone is out to hurt him, Cas. Victoria seems genuine. Her daughter, on the other hand—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't mention the daughter."
But it's too late. Because now I'm thinking about her. About the file my private investigator sent me three weeks ago. About everything I learned about Isla Monroe.
Twenty-three years old. Art history degree from Columbia. Recently dumped at her engagement party by her fiancé—who left her for her younger sister. Cut off by her father. Working three jobs. Living on a friend's couch.
The perfect setup for a gold-digger looking for a wealthy rescue.
"She's moving into the penthouse," I say quietly. Dangerously. "Victoria asked Dad if Isla could stay with us. And he said yes."
Liam whistles low. "That's going to be interesting."
"That's going to be a disaster." I drain my champagne in one gulp. "I don't trust her. I don't trust this timing. And I don't trust—"
I stop talking because I see her.
Isla Monroe.
She's standing near the entrance, half-hidden behind a column like she's trying to disappear. Auburn hair falls past her shoulders in soft waves. Her dress is simple, nothing like the expensive gowns the other guests wear. But it doesn't matter.
Because she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Green eyes. That's what I notice first. Emerald green, bright against her pale skin. Even from across the room, I can see them. Can feel them.
She's not smiling. Not mingling. Not doing any of the things people do at weddings. She's just standing there, watching her mother dance with my father, and she looks...
Lost. Broken. Alone.
Something twists in my chest. Something I don't want to feel.
"That's her," Liam says beside me. "Isla. The daughter."
I force myself to look away. "I know who she is."
"You're staring."
"I'm assessing." I turn my back to her, facing the bar instead. "She's going to be a problem."
"She looks harmless to me. Sad, actually. After everything she's been through—"
"Everything she's been through?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You mean getting publicly dumped? Please. That's called consequences. She probably drove her fiancé away with her attitude. The investigator said her father called her difficult."
"Her father also called her worthless and cut her off completely. At her lowest moment." Liam's voice hardens. "Maybe think about that before you judge her."
I don't want to think about it. Don't want to feel sympathy for a woman who's probably playing the victim to manipulate my father.
But I can't help glancing back at her.
She's still standing alone. Someone bumps into her, spilling champagne on her dress. She apologizes—even though it wasn't her fault—and rushes toward the bathroom.
"I need air," I tell Liam, and walk away before he can respond.
The balcony overlooks Central Park. It's quiet out here. Cold. The wedding reception noise fades to a dull roar behind the glass doors.
I lean against the railing and close my eyes, trying to calm the anger burning in my chest.
This isn't about Isla. It's about Dad. About watching him fall for someone who might hurt him. About being powerless to stop it.
"You must be Caspian."
I turn around so fast I almost lose my balance.
Isla stands in the doorway, her dress wet from the champagne spill. Her eyes are red like she's been crying. She's even more beautiful up close, which makes everything worse.
"And you must be the daughter," I say coldly.
She flinches. "Isla. My name is Isla."
"I know your name. I know everything about you." I straighten, putting on the ice-cold mask I wear in boardrooms. The one that makes grown men nervous. "Columbia graduate. Art history. Engaged to Derek Ashford until he left you for your sister. Cut off by your father. Broke. Desperate."
Her face goes white. "How do you—"
"I do my research. Especially when someone's moving into my home." I take a step closer, watching her back up. Good. She should be afraid. "Let me make something very clear, Isla. I don't care what sob story you told my father. I don't care how much your mother cries about your situation. I know exactly what you are."
"What I am?" Her voice shakes.
"A gold-digger's daughter learning the family trade. Your mother dated my father for six months and suddenly she's married to a billionaire. Very convenient. And now you're moving in? Even more convenient." I lean down so we're eye to eye. "Stay out of my way. Don't embarrass my father. Don't cause problems. And maybe we can coexist without me making your life miserable."
Tears fill those green eyes. But she doesn't cry. Instead, she lifts her chin and stares right back at me.
"You don't know anything about me," she whispers. "Nothing."
"I know enough."
"You know facts. You don't know me. You don't know what I've survived. What I've lost." Her hands clench into fists. "And you have no right to judge me or my mother."
"I have every right. This is my father. My family. My home you're invading."
"Invading? Your father invited us! He loves my mother! And I didn't want to move into your precious penthouse anyway, but I have nowhere else to go!" Her voice breaks. "So excuse me for being desperate. Excuse me for accepting help from the only person who still cares about me."
The words hit harder than they should.
I open my mouth to respond, but she's already turning away.
"Isla, wait—"
"No. You've said enough." She walks back inside, her shoulders shaking.
I stand there alone on the balcony, my hand throbbing where I cut it, my chest tight with something I refuse to name.
She's going to be living in my home. Eating meals with my family. Existing in my space.
And I just made her hate me.
Which is good. Perfect, actually. Hatred is safe. Hatred keeps distance.
But as I watch her through the glass doors, walking back to that column where she can hide alone, I realize something terrifying.
I don't feel victorious.
I feel like the worst person alive.
My phone buzzes. A text from my investigator: Found something about Isla Monroe. Call me. It's important.
I step back inside and dial his number.
"What is it?"
"Sir, I need to tell you something about Miss Monroe. Something I missed in the first report." He pauses. "She's not who we thought she was. Her maternal grandfather was Theodore Monroe. Of Monroe Dynasty Holdings. Worth two billion dollars."
My blood goes cold. "What?"
"Theodore died last year. Left everything to Isla in a trust. But there's a condition—she can't access it until she's twenty-four and proves she can support herself without family help. The trust administrators are watching her. Testing her."
"So she's not broke."
"She is broke. Right now. But in eight months, when she turns twenty-four? She'll be one of the richest women in New York. Richer than your father. Richer than you."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense.
I just accused her of being a gold-digger.
But she's secretly an heiress.
"Sir? Are you still there?"
I hang up and look across the reception hall.
Isla is leaving. Walking toward the exit alone.
And I just destroyed any chance of her not hating me forever.